


ibid.

by teracity



Category: Marvel (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, Vignette, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teracity/pseuds/teracity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It comes down to this: Charles, on the sand, bleeding from his back. Bleeding from his heart. </p>
<p>Erik thinks: they have been here before. All this has happened before, and all this will happen again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ibid.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [afrocurl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl/profile) for kindly helping to beta. 
> 
> This is an experimental piece, and I enjoyed writing it. Hopefully you will enjoy reading it too. The quote at the start is from Cloud Atlas, which this piece is heavily inspired by.

**… we cross, crisscross, and recross our old tracks, like figure skaters.**

i. 

I can hear them. They are close, too close. Hooves thundering on the forest floor; an assurance they will overtake me, sooner rather than later. They are shouting in another language, but it doesn’t matter - I can hear them well enough, the lurid colour of their thoughts driving me to run faster than any whip could. 

Whips would be a mercy compared to what they would do if they catch me. 

An arrow swishes by, just short of my left ear. 

It’s over. 

A hand reaches out to grab me. I stumble right into a rock solid body. The hand is now over my mouth - I cannot scream even if I wanted to do so. The other arm is around my waist, holding me close. This man’s thoughts are not pleasant, but they are not directed at me. 

They are here now, crushing branches and roots underfoot. They do not see us. 

The man turns stormy gray eyes to me, squeezes my wrist hard. He steps out, bare hands outstretched. 

Insane. He has to be. 

The shouts turn to screams. I cannot see, but I feel them anyway. Surprise, quickly choked by fear, extinguished by death. Silence. 

The man is back. He looks at me, softer now. Holds out an open palm. I take it. There is no other place for me anymore. 

ii.

Erik stretches out a hand to the young boy, who looks at him so sombrely that it is disconcerting - both due to his age and the fact that those eyes are a very vivid blue. No wonder the Caliph desires him as one of his harem. Erik feels a bit silly and is about to drop his hand when the boy reaches out to place his soft, pale hand into his own calloused, sunkissed one. 

It is so unexpected that Erik holds his hand too long for it to be proper. 

“Come on,” Erik says gruffly, tugging the boy forward with a little more force than necessary to compensate for the uncharacteristic slip.

There is no reply, no acknowledgement other than the boy withdrawing his hand, mounting his steed and trotting ahead. 

Erik finds himself being troubled for the first time in years of distinguished service. The boy’s parents were delighted to have their son ‘chosen’ by the Caliph, but which family dares to be anything but? He has done this more times than he cares for - escorting the newest fancy to the vast Imperial Harem. It’s a job, and he does his job well. 

They are passing a field, and the horizon dances red, orange, and yellow. This time of the year, the tulips are in full bloom, hundreds and thousands of merry dancers stretching out for miles on each side. 

“Stop,” the boy says, in a surprisingly firm and clear voice. Erik shoots him a questioning look, but does as he is asked. He dismounts when the boy does, and follows him a little way into the field. 

The boy reaches out, breaks the stem of a tulip. Erik starts - the flowers may be common, but great value is placed on them. The boy turns it over and over in his hand, head bent such that his eyes are hidden. 

“There are so many,” the boy murmurs. “The disappearance of one doesn’t matter.” 

The boy tilts his head up and looks at him with eyes bluer than the sky above them. They are impenetrable depths pulling him in. 

"Does it?" 

He falls. 

iii.

He falls, but a hand catches him on the elbow and Erik doesn't make a fool of himself. Not that there's anyone out on deck this time of the night, anyway. 

"Are you all right, Mr Lehnsherr?" the man who caught him asks. Erik bristles at the accented burr, a reminder of the country that condemned him to this fate. 

"Unhand me." He jerks his elbow away for good measure, and straightens his spine. Erik towers over the ship's doctor, who is short but well built. 

"I apologize for preventing your collision with the deck floor." The doctor - Erik tries to recall his name, one of those rich, old families - speaks politely enough, but there is a brief flash of anger in his sea blue eyes. 

Erik has a sudden desire to shake him, to stir that placid surface into the tempest that he knows lies just under. Something must show in his face then, for the good doctor's eyes widen just a fraction before he clears his throat and gestures to the purpling bruise on the side of Erik’s face. 

“Do you want me to look at that?” 

“You should look at the other man,” Erik replies, lips curling up at the memory. 

“Violence is never a solution.” The doctor has the temerity to lecture him on morality. 

“Peace was never an option.” 

The doctor’s face shutters at that, and burning sincerity is masked by the polite civility fitting of a man of his stature.

"We reach land tomorrow. I suggest getting some rest before then," he says, and bids Erik a good night. 

Another wave slams into the ship's bow. Erik grips the railing as he watches the doctor stumbles slightly on his way to his cabin.

Charles - he remembers now. Charles Xavier. 

iv. 

Emma Frost, Countess  
Charles Xavier, Duke  
Erik Lehnsherr, unknown European composer 

**Setting** : The drawing room of the Xavier manor. It is tastefully decorated, and there is an understated opulence to it. Candles are lit, glinting off the gems that adorn the women. There is the quiet murmur of polite society, and the clinking of glasses that go with it. Behind one of the heavy brocade curtains is an alcove, one wall lined with books. 

**Emma** Charles, darling, how wonderful to see you looking so well after the trip to Europe! 

**Charles** (kisses her hand) Enchante, Madame Frost. Shall I compare thee to a winter morn? 

**Emma** You are incorrigible. I must go ask Gabrielle about her jewels. She is so fortunate to have you as her husband.

**Charles** (laughs) The fortune is all mine. 

_Emma approaches and is approached by various ladies and gentlemen, all exchanging polite greetings. He stands beside the doors, surveying the room for a while, gaze resting for a little longer on the elegant lady just by the fireplace. He walks over to the curtains, and hesitates for a moment before entering the alcove. Erik is leaning against the wall, a book in his hand. A lone candle burns at the side. Muffled voices drift through the heavy curtains._

**Charles** You should be out there. 

**Erik** What? So you can parade me around as your latest conquest? 

**Charles** (sighs) Erik, you create wonderful music, but this is not Europe anymore. There is only so much I can do for you. 

_Pause. They both look at each other in the dim light of the alcove._

**Erik** (voice hard) I thought you were an honest man. 

**Charles** I am. I promised - 

**Erik** Then why are you living a lie? 

**Charles** (startled, but remains composed) I do not understand. 

**Erik** No, I doubt we ever did. 

_Erik turns to replace the book in the shelf. He misses several times, before slotting it into place. Charles watches the whole process with narrowed eyes._

**Charles** You’re drunk. 

**Erik** You’re missing the point. 

**Charles** (angrily) Pardon me, but I thought the point was that I introduce you into British society so you don’t have to go lick the boots of some eminent old fart at a music school. It helps to be a Duke for that. 

_Erik is glaring at Charles, knuckles gripping the shelf._

**Charles** (with sudden realization) That’s it, isn’t it? 

**Erik** (abruptly) Remember what you once told me, that night in Florence? You said my music could transform lives. 

**Charles** (slowly) Yes. I still believe that. 

**Erik** We could change the world. You and me, together. The music is clearest when you’re with me, Charles. I want you with me, by my side. 

_They are now both standing by the curtain, an arms length away from each other. Throughout his outburst, Erik has been drawing closer to Charles. They stare at each other._

**Charles** I’m your sponsor, and your friend. I am by your side, Erik.

**Erik** (grips his arm and pulls him close) Not like this. 

_Charles tilts his head up slightly to look Erik in the eye. He makes no move to remove his arm, but his jaw is clenched. They are close enough that each can feel the other’s breath on his face. Erik leans forward._

**Erik** We want the same thing, Charles. 

**Charles** (shakes his head, as if coming out of a trance) My friend, I’m sorry, but we do not. 

v. 

It comes down to this: Charles, on the sand, bleeding from his back. Bleeding from his heart. 

The helmet keeps Charles out, or does it keep Erik in? He doesn’t know anymore. Erik looks down into those blue eyes, brighter than the sky above them, deeper than the sea around them, and he thinks: they have been here before. All this has happened before, and all this will happen again. There is a feverish light in Charles’s eyes, and briefly, a flash of comprehension. 

Waves roll upon the shore, one after another. He thinks: this stops here, now. 

Erik gestures toward Azazel, converses with him briefly. The teleporter nods, face impassive. Erik removes the helmet; Charles looks at him in disbelief, and he can feel the familiar presence darting shyly around the edges of his mind. 

He thinks: you’re not alone, not anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been inspired by a few sources: namely, Cloud Atlas (David Mitchell, a fantastic book that I highly recommend), and the quote (All this has happened before, and all this will happen again) from Battlestar Galactica.


End file.
